


Blood In the Thread

by irisbleufic



Series: No Heart So Hardened [3]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Adorkable, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Autistic Character, Canon Disabled Character, Canon Queer Character, Canon Queer Relationship, Cooking, Developing Relationship, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Family Drama, Family Feels, Family Secrets, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Injury Recovery, Intrigue, Investigations, M/M, Major Character Injury, Making Jim Gordon Suffer, Mother-Son Relationship, Multi, Murder Husbands, New Relationship, POV Oswald Cobblepot, Photographs, Private Investigators, Relationship Negotiation, Season/Series 01, Secrets, Sexual Experimentation, Sexual Inexperience, Sharing a Bed, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-03 22:16:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14578803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: “Holycrap,” Bullock blurted, staring in glaze-eyed disbelief over Allen's shoulder.“Hello,” Oswald said, enjoying the assembly's consternation. “I am Oswald Cobblepot.”“You son of a bitch,” Bullock muttered, making a move toward Gordon. “You son of a—”“Harvey,” said Jim, his voice low with warning as colleagues stepped in to restrain them both.“You owe me an escort after all this trouble, Jim,” Oswald said primly. “Wouldn't you agree?”“I'm not sure I understand,” Jim replied, looking Oswald up and down. “You're walking fine.”





	1. Chapter 1

By Wednesday afternoon, Oswald's boredom with the view afforded him from Edward's bed was exceeded only by his frustration with Edward's puzzle-books. Hobbling around on crutches in an unwieldy brace, which was strapped to his leg with itchy velcro, took the fun out of exploring.

Sick of crosswords that were either insultingly simple or not painkiller-brain friendly, Oswald launched himself out of bed with intent to raid the refrigerator. He found the weird, yet tasty rice-flour bread Edward had been using to make toast for him, as well as some thinly-sliced turkey. That, plus mild kosher cheddar and spicy honey-mustard, made a decent sandwich.

Oswald discovered that he could function with only one crutch, which made getting to the sofa with a plate easier. There was nothing on Channel Five but inane traffic reports, so he flipped over to Channel Nine. He was rewarded with a sound-bite from the MCU detectives assigned to his case.

“No concrete results as of yet,” said the one named Montoya, “but we're pursuing every viable lead.”

“The victim's mother is distraught,” added Allen, clearly better at tugging heartstrings. “Tough case.”

Taking another bite of his sandwich, Oswald snorted and turned off the television. “Thrilling,” he said, fumbling in the pocket of Edward's cozy robe for the burner phone Edward had gotten him several days ago.

 _Did you know the two-clown circus was just on TV?_ he texted one-handed. _Hilarious_.

 _Yes_ , Edward responded after a full minute. _Cameras everywhere outside the precinct._

 _Do they have anything?_ Oswald wrote back, chewing slowly. _They'd never say on-air._

 _I don't think so_ , Edward replied, _but G and B are more and more agitated by the day._

It took Oswald a few moments of drug-addled meditation to realize that he meant Gordon and Bullock.

 _Wish I could share your front-row seat_ , he typed back, shoving his plate onto the coffee table.

 _I'd make popcorn and cuddle you_ , Edward responded, insufferably sweet. _How's the leg?_

 _The brace helps_ , Oswald admitted grudgingly, wishing that Edward were there to fluster with kisses. _Also, the spicy mustard is almost gone_.

 _Then stop putting it on EVERYTHING?_ Edward replied, his uncharacteristic capslock strangely endearing. _Guess I'll pick up more. Same brand okay?_

 _When will you be home?_ Oswald typed, feeling petulant. _Can you leave early today?_

 _No_ , came Edward's reply. _Same as Monday and yesterday, later if store run hits traffic._

Feeling sleepier the further he slumped against the inadequate sofa pillows, Oswald sent a final text.

 _It's boring here without your chatter and handsome face_ , he sent drowsily. _Miss you._

The next thing Oswald knew, he was waking to keys in the door and a string of profanities he'd recognize anywhere. His sense of disconnect took several jarring phrases to kick in. Best not to think too hard about the swear-words' translations.

“ _Lófaszt_!” his mother went on, disgusted, but she'd managed to enter. “Oswald, this door is—”

“Yes, it sticks,” Oswald agreed blearily, rubbing his eyes. He snapped the phone shut when he realized it had fallen in his lap and that Edward's hasty response of _same, wish I could kiss you_ was visible. Hardly advanced-level sexting, but Oswald flushed anyway. “What are you doing here?”

“Edward has given me his spare key,” Gertrud said, jingling it at arm's length as she dragged her wheeled crate over to the sofa. She perched on the cushion next to Oswald's extended legs, mindful of the brace, and held open the brown paper bag in the crate. “I must start dinner.”

Oswald considered reopening the phone for purposes of cursing Edward out over such a foolish move.

“When did he give it to you?” he asked instead, peering into the bag. “Mom, that's our whole fridge.”

“He gave on Monday,” said Gertrud, with mild reproach. “Not your fridge, not since you live here.”

Rolling his eyes, Oswald gave her a strained smile. “You know it's because he can't move me yet.”

“Somehow, you move from bed to here,” replied Gertrud, getting to her feet, shedding her velvet coat.

“Uh, they're called crutches,” said Oswald, indicating where he'd propped them against the coffee table.

“I would ask for help, but you must not stand,” Gertrud tutted, dragging her crate over to Edward's center-island worktop. “Is time Edward must try something different, you think?”

“Sure,” Oswald said, propping himself up straighter against the pillows. “What did you have in mind?”

“ _Paprikás csirke_ from freezer to save time,” Gertrud said, thunking one of her ubiquitous former take-away containers on the counter, “but I make _tojásos nokedli_ from scratch.”

Fresh egg dumplings were a rare delicacy, reserved almost solely for visitors and special occasions.

“Ed will appreciate that a lot,” Oswald said, flipping open the phone, surprised to note it was past five.

“He will come back soon,” said Gertrud, unpacking a carton of eggs, bag of flour, bundled spring onions, and a precious tub of duck fat from the Polish market several blocks away. “I will teach.”

“Did you and Ed make the chicken last week?” asked Oswald, suspiciously. “While I was sleeping?”

“Yes, so quick he learns,” Gertrud sighed, cracking several eggs into a bowl. “Now, you must rest.”

Dropping the phone in his pocket, Oswald reached for the crutches and propelled himself back to the bed. Once he was settled on the mattress, he yanked open the velcro straps and eased off the brace. If not for the hinged segment allowing for knee movement, it would have been worse.

“Surely you must leave it on, _Liebchen_?” Gertrud protested, mixing water and flour into the eggs.

“Not while I'm resting,” Oswald replied, lying down with a sigh. He turned his head sideways, nosing at the pillow on Edward's side of the bed. It smelled of the brilliantine he'd gone on using.

The next time he woke, it was to more of his mother's insipid nattering in the background while Edward, seated beside him on the mattress, bent low for a kiss. Oswald met him halfway before he could question the wisdom of such a brazen action in his mother's presence.

“Hello, sleepyhead,” Edward murmured, pecking Oswald on the cheek once they'd drawn apart.

“I cannot _believe_ you just did that,” Oswald groused, but it was impossible not to smile.

“If you refuse to share these things, I am hurt,” chided Gertrud, too busy dropping dumplings in the frying pan to even turn and look at them. “But do not worry, Edward has explained.”

Oswald's eyes went wide even as Edward nodded in agreement and nuzzled Oswald's other cheek.

“You explained rather than let her catch on?” Oswald hissed. “Like—in excruciating _detail_?”

Edward shrugged, sprawling so he could rest his head on Oswald's chest. “I said we were an item.”

“Only you,” Oswald muttered, picking at Edward's red-and-black plaid lapel. “Take off that coat.”

“Oh, right,” said Edward, hurriedly sitting back up, shrugging out of the garment. “Rude of me.”

Oswald sat up, leaning close to Edward's ear. “I _was_ going to give you a nice welcome-home.”

“This is a nice welcome-home?” Edward ventured, hugging Oswald now that he could. “Dinner and—” 

Oswald kissed him deeply this time, deciding to test the limits of his mother's feigned inattention.

“ _Tsk_ , so distracted,” Gertrud said with mild impatience. “You must help with this, Edward.”

“Okie-doke,” Edward agreed, leaving Oswald alone on the bed as swiftly as you please. “Dumplings?”

Lulled by the sound of their chatter and the comfortingly familiar smell of paprika chicken as Edward busied himself with heating the frozen dish, Oswald dozed for a little longer. Amusing, to think that Edward's mind wouldn't immediately leap to sex if cooking and company were on offer.

“...am not happy he cannot be home as long as those special police keep coming,” his mother was saying, as one of them tapped a wooden spoon against metal, “but he is safe here.”

“I know he doesn't want to reveal himself just yet,” Edward said. “I'll hide him as long as he asks.”

Oswald opened his eyes and focused, deciding he'd rather be fully conscious to eavesdrop on this.

“How Fish could be good to him,” said Gertrud, venomously, “and then decide to _hurt_...”

“Ms. Kapelput,” said Edward, quietly, “your son snitched to the MCU—yes, those officers, Allen and Montoya—regarding her involvement in framing the Wayne murders suspect.”

“That's right,” Oswald said, irritated at Edward, but recognizing an opportunity to allay his mother's fears. “I just wanted to do the right thing.”

“Do the right thing?” Gertrud scoffed as Oswald sat up again, spooning out dumplings. “When you are working for a criminal? Is this even possible?”

Oswald shot Edward, who looked instantly guilty and avoided Oswald's gaze, an infuriated glare.

“I had to tell her about Fish,” said Edward, dully, dishing out the chicken once Gertrud was done.

“So many things now, they make sense,” said Gertrud, darkly, whisking two of the plates over to Edward's tiny dining table, “but how can I fault my son? He is making sure we survive.”

“If I reveal myself too soon,” said Oswald, glancing from Gertrud to Edward, holding Edward's gaze this time now that he had it, “Fish would send someone to kill me. She already tried.”

Nodding, Gertrud put the third plate in Edward's hands, fork and all, shooing him in Oswald's direction.

“I'm sorry,” Edward whispered, situating the plate in Oswald's lap while Gertrud took her place at the table. “She just—started asking questions while we were cooking last week! So many questions!”

To silence him, Oswald speared a sauce-smothered piece of chicken and sliver of dumpling, bringing them up to Edward's lips. He watched Edward open his mouth obediently—and chew, and swallow.

“She expects you to join her, you know,” Oswald told him primly. “So you'd better go sit down.”

Edward nodded, heavy-lidded, as if his brain was just now catching up with the earlier innuendo.

From his vantage-point on the bed, Oswald found that the view was significantly improved when he could observe every nuance of the comical, yet sincere interactions between his mother and Edward. His interjections were mostly met with affectionate dismissal, although Edward always turned to look at him while he spoke. Edward kissed him when it came time to gather the dishes, lingering.

“I want to—” Edward breathed in through his nose while Oswald nipped his lip “—I want _you_ when she's gone. Couldn't stop thinking about you at work, those texts were—” 

“Go help her with the dishes,” Oswald sighed, reaching for the crutches. “I need a change of scenery.”

“The brace?” Edward asked sternly, eyeing it on the floor next to the bed as he went to join Gertrud.

“I wore it all day,” Oswald griped, careful to keep his injured foot from brushing the floor as he hopped over to the sofa. “It was uncomfortable, so I'm not going to wear it—” _while we fuck_ , he mouthed “—tonight.”

Once the dishes were done, Edward and Gertrud both joined him on the sofa. Gertrud, at the far end, seated to Edward’s right, pulled another item that Oswald hadn't noticed earlier out of her crate.

“These, before, I did not show you,” Gertrud told Edward, opening the small, tattered album in her lap.

Oswald, prepared to shout at her for hauling out embarrassing baby photos, hesitated as he watched her flip through the first few pages.

These were old, older than any photographs he'd ever seen his mother show off to the rare visitor. He recognized her as a shy, curious child, and then a winsome teenager. He recognized his grandparents in their twenties and thirties, sobered by how much more he resembled his grandmother in her youth than even his mother did.

Gertrud flipped a fourth page, her hands obscuring its contents. When she looked up at Edward, and then at Oswald, her eyes gleamed with unshed tears. Slowly, she parted her hands.

“You must forgive me,” she said in a heartbroken whisper. “We have kept secrets from each other.”

Oswald studied the pair of photographs with a sense of detached unease. Unlike the rest of the album's contents, they were Polaroids. Two faces in each shot, the left-hand visage almost half out-of-frame in each. His mother—vibrant and wide-eyed, her hair a wild spill of gold—was the one who had manipulated the camera, with no concept of how the shots would turn out.

Her companion in each portrait was a dark-haired young man whose lone visible eye was darker still.

“Oh my,” said Edward, his voice hushed, turning to study Oswald in profile. “ _Oh_. Yes, I see.”


	2. Chapter 2

On Friday, after leaving Oswald and Edward alone for forty-eight hours with her revelation, Gertrud let herself in again with Edward's spare keys. She woke Oswald up again while she was at it.

“You could call Ed at work and ask him to text me,” Oswald grumbled as Gertrud drew the blinds and cleared away what was left of Edward’s breakfast. “Some warning would be nice.”

“Oh, I did that,” said Gertrud, cheerfully, waving him off. “He says you need help with shower.”

“I do _not_ need help with the shower!” Oswald protested. “I can get there myself now.”

“Shame, how lazy,” Gertrud scoffed as she approached the bed, “when you have no work to do.”

“If you’re here to make breakfast, I hate to break it to you,” Oswald replied, “but I can do that, too.”

“Mustard on cheese? Eating Edward’s fruit before he can have any?” Gertrud challenged. “Lazy.”

Oswald huffed, recalling Edward’s gripe about the vanished bananas. “Fine. Make some oatmeal.”

“You are forgetting,” Gertrud said, retrieving Oswald’s crutches, thrusting them at him. “Shower.”

Oswald just barely managed to catch them as she whisked away again. He couldn’t resist retaliation.

“I’d rather wait until Edward gets home, if it’s all the same to you,” he said pointedly, using the crutches to hop off the bed, foregoing the troublesome brace. “He’ll need one, too.”

Gertrud shot him a tiresome look from the cupboards, where she’d begun to rummage. “Do not brag.”

Oswald situated himself at the dining table, watching her track down everything with impressive speed.

“Why not?” he asked airily, gazing out across the city. “Edward’s unassuming at first, but he’s clever. Difficult to shock. Adorable.”

“It is because he is clever and found you,” Gertrud said hesitantly, “that I need you to ask a favor.”

Oswald thought that statement over for a minute or so, watching her measure oats into a saucepan.

“You want him to track down my father, don’t you,” he said. “Why in the world should we bother?”

Gertrud slammed the steel measuring-cup down on the counter, startling Oswald out of his flippancy.

“Because I have almost lost you!” she cried. “Because I will be _damned_ if I lose him forever, too!”

Nodding nervously, Oswald swallowed and sat up straight. “How do you know he’s even still alive?”

“I lied that he was dead, you know this,” Gertrud sighed, returning to the stove. “When you were a little one. I wanted you to have no thoughts of him. This choice, now, I regret.”

“And you think Ed could find Atlantis if he put his mind to it?” asked Oswald, with a sober expression.

“This man, your father,” said Gertrud, stirring with determination, “Elijah Van Dahl. He is not a story.”

“The Van Dahls were old money in this city,” said Oswald, before thinking better of it. “Fish says—”

“The obituaries of his parents, I saw both,” Gertrud went on. “Cruel when they find out and send me away. But they give me money, always, until you are twenty-one. When they stop…”

“That’s when I had to start working for Fish,” said Oswald, folding his arms across his chest. “And?”

“I have never seen announcement of your father’s death in the papers,” Gertrud replied, testing the oatmeal’s thickness, “but I have also never seen him in the city. I am too ashamed to go back.”

“Back where?” Oswald asked. “Oh, you mean the Van Dahl Estate in the Palisades? No wonder.”

“I have it up to here with your sarcasm,” Gertrud warned, carrying two bowls over to the table. She sat down across from him, noting the chair’s water damage with distaste. “Is serious, Oswald.”

“What do you expect me to do?” Oswald asked in disbelief. “Ask Ed to march up to this guy’s door?”

“No,” Gertrud said, stirring sugar into both bowls. “He is a private eye. Have him investigate first.”

“There are any number of things you could find on Elijah Van Dahl in the Public Records Office,” Oswald said, accepting the bowl she pushed at him. “Like if he lived or died, if he ever married…”

“These things, Edward can easily learn at GCPD,” Gertrud insisted. “I do not go in dusty archives.”

“Of course not,” Oswald sighed, his mouth full, “what with your delusions of aristocratic grandeur.”

“You dream the same things,” Gertrud shot back, pointing at him with her spoon. “Because it is true.”

“For _me_ , maybe, if Elijah’s who you say he is, but you? Minor nobility, and disgraced? No.”

“Such insults, Oswald,” said Gertrud, wounded. “Such insults you speak to your poor mother.”

“I hate to burst your bubble, Mom,” Oswald snapped, “but this is _Gotham_. Here, we are nobodies, and in Gotham? If nobody wants to become somebody, they work for it.”

Gertrud’s expression turned calculating in a way that Oswald had only very seldom glimpsed.

“And I see now that you have been working harder than I _ever_ thought,” she replied.

Oswald stared out the window, breakfast on hold. “Sorry I lied about the…legality of my job.”

“Is not your job any longer,” Gertrud reminded him. “Not with this Fish harlot after your life.”

“Oh my God, she’s _not_ a prostitute,” Oswald retorted. “Promiscuous, yes, but not—”

“You have nothing,” Gertrud cut in, “and no ally except this sweet boy who is not even police.”

“That’s where you're wrong,” Oswald said. “Edward is better than an officer, and you know it.”

Gertrud smiled, as if to signal that he was finally catching on. “Bring them down from inside.”

Oswald considered the implications of what Edward had already done on his behalf, as well as the implications of Edward’s response to Oswald’s recent murderous exploits. There was potential.

“I have to be sure of where he stands on that,” Oswald said. “And be sure you’re committing, too.”

Reaching across the table, Gertrud smiled tearfully, tender again, patting his hand. “I will adapt.”

“Adapt,” Oswald muttered, remembering something. “You sold a schoolmate out to the secret police because she bullied you. Somehow, I don’t think Miss So-and-So survived _your_ snitching.”

Gertrud shrugged, hard-eyed again. “Should we pretend there is anything noble in this blood?”

“I’ll stop pretending if you will,” Oswald said brazenly, testing the water. “I killed four people.”

The color drained from Gertrud’s face, but her expression was flat. “I killed one, as you say.”

“Then you’ve got some catching up to do,” Oswald said, rising with one crutch and his bowl, hobbling around to her side. He set his bowl in hers, picked up both, and made for the sink.

“Edward said you killed those men for self-defense,” Gertrud said quietly. “Should I believe him?”

“I killed them because I needed to survive,” Oswald said, running the tap, “and because I needed to get back to Gotham. Back to _you_.” He shrugged, chuckling. “And one of them was mean.”

“Such _terrible_ manners,” Gertrud crooned, turning in her chair. “Such rude beasts they are.”

“Yes,” Oswald agreed, making short work of the dishes, leaning heavily on his crutch. “Exactly.”

How Oswald convinced his mother to leave after she’d dried the dishes and made them coffee, he wasn’t entirely sure. She’d probably arrived with the intention of staying through dinner, but Oswald had come to value his evenings alone with Edward. Didn’t relationships need work?

That logic seemed sound enough in employment, although Gertrud made him promise, _promise_ to pitch her request to Edward. Oswald relented and hustled her out, locking the door in relief. 

Making the best of a dull situation, Oswald blew through as many of Edward’s records as he could in the five hours he had left until Edward got home. Edward’s taste ran the gamut from nineteen-twenties lounge music to nineteen-fifties pop—onward to a weird smattering of contemporary singer-songwriters and indie bands that Oswald had never even _heard_ of.

Finding his mother’s perennial favorite lullaby in the mix as a hard-to-find LP single felt like fate.

Oswald had seemingly fallen asleep listening to it, because it was Edward’s weight beside him on the sofa-cushion that alerted him to a change in his surroundings. Their record-static backdrop made the moment of surreal, muted recognition feel like something out of a film.

“I don’t know if you noticed the keyboard,” said Edward, in bashful greeting, “but I can play it.”

“My mother is going to love you more than she already does,” Oswald sighed, leaning forward.

Edward took his time about the kissing—slow and leisurely, a proper tease. They’d only been tentative at first because of shared exhaustion, but this was nothing like waking up from sedation and making a hasty decision. This was heady awareness, delay for pleasure’s sake.

“You didn’t shower, did you,” Edward said, breathing into the crook of Oswald’s neck. “I hoped your mom would scare you into it.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Oswald countered, struggling to sit up. “You know I can’t do it alone.”

“You’re just taking advantage of my attraction,” Edward said, his tilted smile suggesting a dare. He slid an arm around Oswald, getting them both on their feet. “Fortunately, there’s mutual benefit.”

Under the hot water, Edward was all business. He wouldn’t touch Oswald except to wash him, and he fended off Oswald’s continual kiss-attempts. 

Oswald gave in to the rising sense of dread in the pit of his stomach, feeling slightly petty to boot.

“Mom wants you to track down my father and spy on him,” he announced. “Like you did with me.”

Edward shrugged, eyes closed tightly under the spray as he finished rinsing his hair. “I can do that.”

Narrowing his eyes, Oswald watched Edward immediately turn his back in order to turn off the water. His swift, knee-jerk response had been difficult to read. Sometimes, it meant he was anxious.

“Sorry,” Oswald muttered, pressing his wet cheek to the worst of the scarring over Edward’s spine. He wrapped his arms around Edward from behind, letting his fingers splay against Edward’s chest.

Edward took a hitching breath, his hands moving to encircle Oswald’s wrists. “Bed first,” he said.

Drying off wasn’t straightforward, because Edward paid Oswald back with every kiss he’d thwarted while they were bathing. He picked Oswald up when it was obvious they were in danger of ending up on the floor, getting them to their destination with a few near-stumbles.

“Promise me you will _never_ try that again,” Oswald admonished, stretching against the sheets while Edward put their make-out session on pause to examine Oswald’s leg. “Ever.”

“I am a single digit, but a pair out of ten,” said Edward, seemingly satisfied that Oswald’s ankle was looking less dire than it had the evening before. “Two of me make a promise. What am I?”

Oswald caught Edward’s hand against the side of his face as Edward clambered over him, entwining their little fingers to Edward’s utter expression of delight. “I pinkie-swear,” he said.

“Not to be late to the party or anything,” Edward blurted, “but I think I _am_ in love with you.”

“Took you a week to decide?” Oswald teased, framing Edward’s face with both hands. “I’m glad.”

“I’m kinda iffy on the part where the thought of you killing people is hot,” Edward admitted tersely.

“You know I’ve done it,” Oswald said, kissing him softly on the mouth, “and that I’d do it again.”

Edward moaned, pressing the kiss deep. He pinned Oswald to the mattress, trembling with desire.

“I want to do so much to you,” he said, his voice muffled in the pillow. “So much _with_ you.”

“If I wasn’t in pain,” Oswald confessed, “I’d ask you to get a condom and— _um_. You know.”

That did the trick—and deliciously. Edward guided Oswald’s arms around his neck, kissed him slow and feverish while grinding down against him. They were both so close Oswald could taste it.

“Maybe I could ride you,” Edward managed shakily, biting at the shell of Oswald’s ear. “Easier?”

Oswald retaliated eagerly, closing his eyes. Maybe this nerdy, socially awkward forensics tech wasn’t so innocent after all. Thrilling, to know Edward was already thinking that far ahead.

“Not right now,” Oswald gasped, clamping onto Edward with his good leg, hard as he dared, and came.

Edward let his weight fall heavy against Oswald. “Well, _no_ ,” he whimpered tautly, joining him.

Pleasantly sticky and sated, Oswald played with Edward’s hair while they lay tangled. Edward’s recovery was less than swift when he was tired; it was obvious work was stressing him out.

“You don’t have to do what my mother is asking,” Oswald murmured. “Just because we’re together, that doesn’t oblige you.” He rubbed Edward’s back when he realized Edward was sniffling into the pillow. “My life is fine without some long-lost father in the picture.”

“Yes, but it means a lot to her,” Edward said, lifting his head, “and maybe your dad’s better than mine.”

“How good can he have been if he let his parents separate them,” Oswald seethed. “I would never…”

“I know you wouldn’t,” Edward said, kissing him gratefully. “She deserves closure, don’t you think?”

“I won’t let you go alone, Ed,” Oswald said, nuzzling Edward’s cheek. “I hope you at least know that.”


	3. Chapter 3

Oswald had never gotten far beyond _handsome_ , _doesn't mock me_ , and _has half a brain_ as requirements in a lover. _Serenades me awake_ had not even occurred to him. He opened his eyes and shoved Edward's quilt down off the tip of his nose, listening more closely to Edward's voice above the deftly-landed chords. It was clear, competent, and charming.

_The fire has gone out,_  
_wet from snow above,_

_but nothing will warm me more_  
_than my, my mother's love._

_I light another candle,_  
_dry the tears from my face—_

“You said you could play,” Oswald cut in, propping himself up, “but you didn't mention you sang, too.”

Edward shrugged and stopped, turning around in his chair so he could beam at Oswald. “Surprise?”

“It's Saturday morning,” Oswald said, giving a seductive pout his best shot. “Why are you over there?”

“Couldn't sleep,” Edward admitted, rising so that he could make his way back to Oswald's side. He climbed back into bed and tugged the covers over them, trapping Oswald with a sideways hug and a kiss to his temple. “I was tidying up, thinking about how best to collect information on Elijah, and then I noticed you'd left that single on the turntable. I figure it has meaning for you.”

“Every night when I was young,” Oswald said, parting Edward's robe, pressing his cheek to Edward's warm chest, “my mother would sing that song to me when I was going to bed.”

Nodding absently, Edward kissed the top of Oswald's head and nuzzled his hair. “Does she still?”

“Only if I'm not feeling well,” Oswald admitted, closing his eyes, “so your instincts remain sharp.”

“Anything else I can do to make you feel better?” Edward murmured, tone low and lazily suggestive.

Oswald lifted his head and kissed Edward fiercely, earning a choked moan for his trouble. He rolled Edward onto his back, testing pressure on his knees. Less than ideal with the painkillers wearing off.

“Hold off long enough to come in my mouth this time?” he suggested, nipping at Edward's lower lip.

Unsurprisingly, Edward found the holding-off part difficult, so Oswald contented himself with watching Edward's hazy eyes widen as he snuck a taste from his fingers. He sighed tremulously.

“You tasted okay the other morning when I...” Edward cleared his throat. “It's just the consistency.”

Oswald clambered back up to kiss him, wincing at the stab of pain in his ankle. “You're fine, Ed.”

“I'll get used to it,” Edward insisted, forcing Oswald to lie back. “I _want_ to get used to it.”

Edward's repeat performance was more than satisfactory, even if he made the mistake of trying to swallow. He panted against Oswald's belly, in tandem with the rise and fall of Oswald's chest.

Once they'd showered, dressed, and got breakfast underway, Edward booted up a laptop that looked much worse for wear and spent about two hours oblivious to anything except Oswald's head against his shoulder as they awkwardly shared the sofa. He turned occasionally to kiss Oswald's forehead, but his eyes stayed plastered on either the screen or the swift keystrokes he entered.

Oswald was drifting off with a cold mug of tea propped in his lap by the time Edward made a sound.

“Married,” announced Edward, grimly. “Look. Our archivist's predecessor gave me her login once, and it still _works_. Lazy, lazy IT. Here's the marriage certificate, digitized and everything.”

“You can access city hall as well as GCPD?” Oswald asked, blinking at the document in disbelief.

“The wife's name is Grace,” Edward went on, nodding, chasing a few linked records. “And she has two grown kids, Sasha and Charles. Seems your father adopted them while they were young.”

“Marvelous,” Oswald said, leaning forward to plonk the mug on the coffee table, bundling himself back into the quilt against Edward's side. “Mom's going to pitch a fit.”

“Would it be better if _we_ told _her_ he was dead?” Edward asked, setting the laptop aside so he could pull Oswald closer. “The same white lie she told you? I found the parents' obituaries, just like she mentioned. Your grandfather killed himself, and your grandmother died not too many years afterward. The suicide seems to have had knock-on effects. Elijah's a recluse.”

Oswald considered Edward's suggestion, deciding it had a great deal of potential. If they hadn't run into Elijah in this many years of traipsing around Gotham, they weren't likely to in the future.

“Your plan's kind of perfect,” he said at length, working a hand beneath Edward's sweater vest just to get a flustered rise out of him. “Those old family mausoleums don't list specifics on the outside except for last name, right? We could take Mom for a stroll in Stoker tomorrow.”

“She's the type to stand on ceremony, I imagine,” said Edward, approvingly, trapping Oswald's hand. “We should pick up some flowers on the way. Give her a chance at real closure.”

“I hope you're not allergic to lilies,” Oswald said. “She'll ask for Bermudas and Stargazers, a mixed dozen.”

“Whatever she wants, I'll gladly pay,” Edward replied. “I feel like she's the one who did me a favor.”

“Conscious matchmaker, my mother is not,” Oswald reassured, “but she has a way of tempting fate.”

They spent the remainder of the morning, and around half the afternoon, on oddly pragmatic pursuits. 

Ever tiresome, but vastly knowledgeable, Edward showed Oswald what he'd been doing wrong in fastening the brace. Repositioned and less tight than before, it was more comfortable to move in.

After lunch, Oswald insisted that they both sit down at the keyboard. He played what few faltering melodies he knew for Edward, from _Heart and Soul_ to random snippets of show-tune accompaniment he'd learned from a sympathetic high-school music teacher.

They fared better with Edward playing and both of them singing, although Edward was versatile enough to play counterpoint to any fragment in Oswald's repertoire. Duets devolved into elbow collisions and helpless laughter, until neither of them wanted anything so much as the other.

“I didn't plan on having to get dressed again,” Edward said, shifting against the uncomfortable, quilt-covered sofa with Oswald draped over him. “You shouldn't keep taking the brace off, either.”

Oswald wiggled his toes against Edward's calf, cheek plastered against Edward's shoulder, shrugging.

“You said that the damage was likely already done,” he replied. “If I end up with a limp, then I limp.”

“Maybe,” Edward said hesitantly, “but it shouldn't be too pronounced if you start following directions.”

“This might come as a surprise, but I've always been better at giving them than following them,” said Oswald, eyes flying open as Edward's cell phone vibrated against the coffee table. “Leave it.”

“Can't,” Edward groaned, showing off his impressive reach, snagging it. “That ringtone's your mom.”

Huffing irritably, Oswald listened as Edward answered the call. “You mean you went to the trouble—”

“Much better, I promise,” Edward said, clapping a hand over Oswald's mouth. “The swelling's down.”

Oswald rolled his eyes, licking Edward's fingers until he pulled them away. “What does she want?”

“Us to go over there for dinner, since you're obviously so mobile now,” Edward said, tetchily put-out.

“I'm sure you can sneak me in without anyone seeing,” Oswald replied loudly so Gertrud would hear.

Edward spent the final thirty seconds of the call stammering _yes, ma'am_ and _no, ma'am_. He finally hung up and tossed the phone back on the table, glaring, so Oswald kissed him. They stayed like that for a moment, savoring the closeness.

“What's so terrible about going back?” Oswald asked softly. “I thought you enjoyed your first visit.”

“One, we'd be moving you unnecessarily before tomorrow's cemetery run,” Edward replied, “and two, I'm not looking forward to breaking the news of said visit. The more I think about how upset she'll be, the guiltier I feel about engaging in elaborate deception.”

“ _Please_. How different is staging a fake death from covering up real ones?” Oswald countered.

“I want us to be happy,” Edward insisted, clinging to him. “The latter's necessary to keeping you safe.”

“The former's necessary to keeping my mother safe,” Oswald said. “You want her to be happy, too.”

“Peachy, I see your point,” Edward muttered, poking Oswald in the side. “We need to get dressed.”

As Oswald had expected, there was no one around to harass them as they found street parking and made their way to the entrance of his apartment complex. Still, Edward had insisted on putting him in a deerstalker, scarf, and overlong coat.

There was no elevator, so the stairs were daunting.

“Never coming back here again as long as I’m on these,” Oswald warned, panting as they reached the landing, leaning heavily on his crutches. Edward’s arm around him only compensated for so much.

“You know I don’t want you to leave,” Edward admitted quietly as they covered the short distance to Apartment 9, “but that would be unfair to your mother. She needs you. I don't want to stand in the way of that.”

“She needs to learn a little self-sufficiency, is what,” Oswald groused as Edward knocked on the door.

“More than a _week_ since you come home!” Gertrud scolded, letting them in. “Such shame!”

“I was kind of busy,” was all Oswald could manage in his own defense while Edward unbundled him.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t let him visit sooner, Ms. Kapelput,” Edward added, handing the hat, scarf, and coat over to Gertrud for hanging. “I’m sure it’s a relief to have him back, even if only for an evening. It's still not safe.”

“Is a thing I understand, young love,” said Gertrud, waving them off in an unexpected change of tune.

“Uh, Mom,” Oswald said, hobbling after her to the closet. “About that. We have some bad news.”

Gertrud finished hanging their outerwear and turned, schooling her expression. “I am ready to hear it.”

“Elijah has been dead for several years now,” Edward interjected before Oswald could continue. “I did some digging in the databases this morning from home. I know that’s not what you were hoping—”

“No,” Gertrud said, eyes glittering, reaching for Edward’s extended hand, “but you are good for trying.”

“We thought maybe you’d want to go to Stoker Cemetery tomorrow,” Oswald said, concealing the depth of his relief. “We could pick up flowers in the morning and track down the mausoleum.”

“Oh, I know where it is,” said Gertrud, wiping her eyes dismissively as she turned from them to get back to the stove. “Elijah showed me one time we go walking there, so dignified it was.”

Oswald exchanged uneasy glances with Edward. “Did you guys, uh, hang out in graveyards often?”

“Very Romantic of you,” Edward tittered, “and I mean that in the literary sense. Did you know that Mary Wollestonecraft Shelley—”

“I will not think of this now,” Gertrud said curtly, stirring a large pot of what smelled like _halászlé_.

“What I was going to say,” Edward whispered as Oswald led the way over to the sofa, “was that she lost her virginity to Percy Shelley on her mother’s grave. Did you know that?”

“No, Ed, I didn’t,” Oswald retorted, finding the cups of tea she’d prepared for them too far in advance. “It’s not like I paid attention to the extra stuff my teacher said when we read _Frankenstein_ , and I doubt they would’ve told us that in tenth grade anyway.”

Edward nodded thoughtfully. “That kind of info’s usually in the introduction, depending on which—”

Oswald kissed him just to shut him up, and he made sure it lasted long enough to short out the thought.

“If you’re getting too bored,” Edward mumbled against Oswald’s mouth, “I could start reading to you.”

“Let’s discuss that later,” Oswald said, fixing Edward’s collar. He still looked endearingly disheveled.

Fortunately for everyone, Edward liked fish. Gertrud had left anything visibly resembling onions out of the soup, although Oswald could taste onion powder in abundance. It was fascinating to get a tutorial on which of Edward’s sensory objections were solely about texture.

Dessert was _somlói galuska_ , something Edward seemed familiar with by virtue of being nosy.

“I found an article online that described this as _much chocolate, very cake_ ,” he said happily.

“How does it compare to internet nonsense?” Gertrud asked, already halfway through her own piece.

“You used cashews,” Oswald said, unable to decide how he felt about such an unusual substitution in one of his favorite comfort-foods. “That's quite the departure from your tried-and-true family recipe. Did you run out of walnuts?”

“Walnuts are too bitter,” said Gertrud, scraping what remained of her dark-chocolate rum sauce and fresh cream into a pile. “This occurs suddenly to me as I plan tonight's dinner. Edward has told me he does not like bitter.”

“Cashews are in the same plant family as mangoes and poison ivy,” Edward offered. “Isn’t that neat?”

“No, but it explains why I can’t peel a mango without getting a rash,” Oswald said, finishing his trifle.

Edward pressed a kiss behind Oswald’s ear while Gertrud cleared the plates. “I’ll peel them for you.”

“Brazen,” Oswald scolded halfheartedly, leaning into him. “Maybe she _will_ call you a hussy.”

“I call nobody that unless they deserve!” Gertrud called over her shoulder, washing plates at the sink.

Edward turned pink and hid his face against Oswald’s shoulder, an entirely unexpected development.

“It’s okay,” Oswald said fondly, patting him on the back. “We both know you actually deserve it.”

Over coffee in the parlor-half of the apartment, Gertrud persuaded them to stay late and watch a movie. _Casablanca_ was too easily followed with _Night Train to Munich_. Oswald was bored nearly to tears by the end of the second, stretched out on the sofa with his face hidden in the pillows Edward had piled in his lap. He’d agreed to the second film only if he got to remove the brace.

By the end of _Night Train_ , Gertrud was fast asleep in her armchair, dreaming of God only _knew_ what glories from her past. Edward blinked down at Oswald through the static-lit darkness, combing his fingers through Oswald’s hair.

“It’s past midnight,” he whispered, side-eyeing Gertrud. “Maybe we should just sleep here tonight.”

“My bed’s big enough,” Oswald hissed back, “but, given your enthusiasm, that is a very bad idea.”

Edward feigned offense, lightly smacking Oswald’s cheek. “ _My_ enthusiasm? You tried to seduce me while waking up from heavy sedation!”

“They say life or death situations will do that,” Oswald shot back, smirking. “What about Mom?”

“Can we put her in her own bed without waking her up?” Edward asked, and then shook himself. “No, never mind that idea, you can’t help me move her. Does she sleep in that chair a lot?”

“Enough that I won’t feel guilty if we leave her there,” Oswald said, sitting up, knocking several throw-pillows to the floor in the process. “Come on,” he said, fetching one crutch and offering Edward his free hand.

Just as well that they’d worn reasonably nice clothes—fortunate, even, that they hadn’t spent much time _in_ them. They would at least look respectable for the trip to Stoker Cemetery come daylight.

Oswald couldn’t deny that it felt strange to settle with Edward in a bed he’d occupied alone for years.

“She showed me this,” Edward whispered, smoothing his hand over Oswald’s undershirt-covered chest.

“What, where I sleep?” Oswald said, drowsily nuzzling the hollow of Edward’s throat. “She would.”

Edward nodded, bunching the pillow beneath their heads. “Never thought I’d…end up here with you.”

“What that tells me,” replied Oswald, after a moment’s bafflement, “is that you were thinking about it.”

“I told you,” Edward said, abashed, “that I’d seen a few pictures. I already found you handsome.”

Unexpectedly moved at his frank sweetness, Oswald hugged Edward tighter. “Nobody thinks that.”

“I think that,” Edward insisted, rubbing Oswald’s back. “You’re attractive, and…smart, and sexy, too.”

Oswald had to breathe deeply, in and out through his nose, just to resist temptation. “Stop talking.”

“Okay,” Edward mumbled, relaxing against Oswald with a pointedly non-seductive yawn. “G’night.”

 _I’d do anything for him_ , Oswald thought, his pulse racing, _and I don’t even know where to start._


	4. Chapter 4

This time, Oswald woke to the familiar, insistent press of fingers against his duvet-covered shoulder. Reassured that Edward was still cuddled against his side, one arm curled around Oswald’s waist, he opened his eyes with a yawn.

Gertrud withdrew her hand, tilting her head to better study Edward’s placid features. Sleepy-eyed and still dressed in yesterday’s clothes, her expression was difficult to read, although there was a hint of curiosity in her glance.

“Maybe it is you I should call hussy,” she whispered, finally offering Oswald a chagrined smile.

“Takes one to know one,” Oswald said, rubbing Edward’s forearm as he stirred with a whimper.

“I will go and start breakfast,” his mother sighed, humming indistinctly as she wandered away.

Edward made another sound, clinging to Oswald more tightly than before. “What’s going on?”

“Mom’s up,” Oswald said, turning his head so he could kiss Edward. “G’morning, handsome.”

Edward cut the kiss short, blushing faintly. “Is she angry with you for having me in your bed?”

“No,” Oswald said, nuzzling the faint rasp of Edward’s jaw, “but she _did_ call me a hussy.”

“Dammit,” muttered Edward, his nose scrunched like he was trying not to laugh. “I was close.”

“Kiss me in public,” Oswald suggested, pinching his thigh, “and she might call you a strumpet.”

“Middle English word of unknown origin,” Edward said. “Might be from the Middle Dutch words _strompen_ , to stalk, and _strompe_ , stocking.”

“Well, you did an admirable job of stalking me,” Oswald allowed, stretching as he sat up, “and you would look better in thigh-highs than you think.”

Edward kicked down the covers, scrambling past Oswald and off the edge of the mattress. He snatched Oswald’s robe off the bedpost, probably feeling self-conscious about his thin undershirt and close-fitting briefs, and put it on. He helped Oswald stand up, getting them over to the sink situated behind the tub. He snatched his glasses from the windowsill and put them on.

“You get ready first,” he said, belting Oswald’s robe once he was sure Oswald had a firm hold on the edge of the sink. “I’ll help your mom cook.”

Oswald washed his face, gave himself a perfunctory sponge-bath, and sat down on the nearby step-stool that Gertrud tended to use for changing lightbulbs. His bandage had come untaped overnight, so he unraveled it until the whole mass of gauze fell to the floor.

The scattered spots where his skin had been broken were scabbed-over, and the bruising around his kneecap had settled to a yellowish-greenish cast with darker streaks. Aside from that, the swelling was almost entirely gone.

As if summoned by Oswald’s self-inspection, Edward came over with a dish towel in hand. He knelt beside Oswald and set a hand on the taut flesh of Oswald’s ankle, caressing it with a tenderness that extended far beyond his desire to heal.

“You’d probably look good in them, too,” he said, eyes crinkling as he grinned up at Oswald.

“What do you mean, I’d…” Oswald trailed off, distracted by the delicacy of Edward's touch, his mind catching up with Edward's shy reciprocal implications. “ _Oh_. Well,” he said casually, lowering his voice an octave, “I’ll wear them for you. If you want.”

Edward’s gaze went slightly unfocused as he considered the offer. He swallowed and rose.

“Finish getting dressed so I can use the sink,” he said tersely, “and _please_ hold that thought.”

Grinning, Oswald grabbed the edge of the sink to haul himself up. He’d hang onto it, all right.

Once they were all fed, groomed, and dressed, Edward raided Gertrud’s coffee-table drawer for a notepad and pen. He started prattling about the nearest independent florists, and then started jotting things down.

Oswald set a reassuring hand on Edward’s knee, tugging the pen out of his clearly nervous grasp. 

“Blooming Couture is fine,” he said, resenting the brace’s creak as he shifted closer. “Really.”

Edward nodded once, emphatically, and set the notepad on the table. “Roger,” he murmured.

Gertrud came back from where she’d been fussing with her hair before the mirror, turning for them to inspect her outfit. The change of clothes wasn't vastly different, but it wasn’t worth pointing that out.

“You look very fine, Ms. Kapelput,” Edward said, glancing up at her before Oswald could speak.

“No use he is for judging such things, my son,” said Gertrud, curtseying, “but bless your heart.”

“The dead don’t care about fashion, Mother,” Oswald sighed, smiling thinly. “Shall we go?”

Whether Edward’s agitation had to do with taking Oswald out in public or perpetuating their deception, Oswald couldn’t be sure. As much as he loathed the addition of sunglasses to the already-ridiculous disguise Edward had devised for him, at least the sunglasses were, in fact, Oswald’s own. He spent the ride to the florist fussing with Edward’s scarf.

Despite Gertrud’s loud protests, Edward insisted that she remain in the car with Oswald while he made the flower purchase alone. He returned with both kinds of lilies in profusion, as well as delicate green Jacks-in-the-Pulpit interspersed throughout the bouquet.

“They're toxic,” Edward said cheerfully as Oswald fingered one curious, folded-over petal.

“Thank goodness you said as much,” said Oswald, deadpan, “before I managed to eat one.”

“Hah,” Gertrud interjected as Edward put the car in reverse. “As a baby, he would do this.”

“As would most babies,” Edward replied reasonably, reaching over to pat Oswald's elbow. “Native populations used them to poison enemies.”

“The Old World does not have this plant,” Gertrud said, leaning forward with interest, reaching over Oswald's shoulder to prod at one of the unusual blooms. “Like dragon mouths.”

“Not dissimilar to snapdragons, no,” Edward agreed, taking the required turn, “or pitcher plants.”

“If I wanted a botany lecture,” Oswald sighed, passing the bouquet back to his mother, “I'd ask.”

“It might come in handy someday,” Edward said, seemingly unoffended. “You never do know.”

They took advantage of the small, deserted parking area just inside Stoker's main entrance. Edward opened the back door for Gertrud, and then immediately helped Oswald, crutches and all, out of the car. He hovered close to Oswald's elbow, concerned.

“The grass is damp, and a lot of this is on an incline,” he fussed. “You'll fall if we don't watch.”

“Edward,” Oswald said under his breath, gesturing at his mother, who'd gone ahead and struck out through the graves, “this will take half an hour, if that. It's going to be fine.”

After a few moments of dithering, they left one crutch propped against the car so that Edward could take Oswald's left arm and act as his support on that side. It slowed their pace somewhat, but Oswald had to admit that it made for steadier footing. And, well—it was nice to be on Edward's arm in public even if there was no one but Gertrud to see.

“I don't think this is brazen enough behavior,” Edward whispered at length, and Oswald laughed.

Gertrud led them up two tiers of the incline before indicating that they could follow the gravel track. They had reached the older section of the grounds where fenced-in plots and mausoleums were in the majority. When she veered into the grass again, Edward steered them on.

Just beyond an elderly couple's black granite obelisk and an overgrown fenced plot bearing no visible names, the Van Dahl structure loomed. The size of a small cottage, it had a padlocked ironwork door with a matching sconce on either side and several broad, low marble steps.

Pausing at the foot of them, Gertrud gestured with the bouquet and said, “Here we would sit.”

Having little choice in the matter, and desire to remain besides, Oswald hung back with Edward.

“Peaceful,” he said, brushing the underside of Edward's wrist with his thumb, “but lonely.”

“I doubt it was lonely for the two of you,” Edward said encouragingly, “and here you are.”

Gertrud made a quiet, choked sound into the flowers, but she did not break down and weep.

Oswald heard the footsteps behind them before Edward, pivoting to glance over his shoulder.

The man in the tan trilby wore a black wool coat; his careworn features were calm and kind.

“I don't mean to be rude,” he said, bypassing Oswald and Edward, “but how did you know my—”

Edward's warning gasp came a split-second too late, because Gertrud had already turned at the sound of the intruder's voice. Her expression told Oswald everything he needed to know.

“You always give me these like the foolish boy you are,” she lamented. “So I bring them back.”

Elijah Van Dahl stared at Gertrud, extending the tiny bouquet in his gloved hand as if in a trance.

“Those green ones are a lovely addition,” he replied, “and these, fool that I am, are poor thanks.”

Before Oswald could attempt to break away from Edward and detain her, Gertrud ran to Elijah.

“A woman shoots her lover, then holds him underwater for five minutes,” muttered Edward, in rapid-fire distress. “Next, she hangs him. Right after, they go for a romantic stroll. Explain.”

Oswald stared, for once understanding the gist of Edward's riddle. “She photographed him?”

Edward nodded miserably, watching as Elijah and Gertrud, both in tears, clung to each other.

“I recognized him even though he wasn't fully in the shots,” he said. “Oswald, we are in so—”

“Such _nerve_ they have!” Gertrud wailed against Elijah's chest. “Telling me you are dead!”

Reflexively, Elijah held her closer, but his gaze, which had been locked on the pair of dropped bouquets, drifted steadily upward. He regarded Oswald and Edward in dreamlike dismay.

“Who told her I was dead?” he asked, his tone carrying no hint of malice. “The two of you?”

Oswald felt a spike of swift, terrible anger propel him forward, but Edward held him fast.

“What would you tell _your_ mother,” he spat with conviction, straining against Edward's impressively solid grasp, “if you found out that the man who ran out on her thirty-one years ago was still alive?”

Elijah's expression shifted from dismay into abject wonder, his eyes darting briefly to Edward.

“You seem to be the odd man out,” Elijah said cautiously, rocking Gertrud. “Care to explain?”

Edward swallowed, yanking Oswald to his chest so forcefully that Oswald dropped the crutch.

“Mr. Van Dahl, Oswald is your son,” he said with reluctance. “Understandably, he's kinda mad.”

Nodding, Elijah closed his eyes and kissed Gertrud's hair. “Oh, my darling, if I had known—”

“How about the part where you married somebody else?” Oswald snapped, unable to stay silent.

As if hearing Oswald's invective for the first time, Gertrud let go of Elijah and staggered back.

“Married?” she echoed helplessly, turning to blink reproachfully at Oswald. “You did this?”

Removing his hat, Elijah retrieved his bundle of fawn lilies, and then offered it to her again.

“What was I to do after so many long years, so much heartache?” he asked. “My parents told me that you had left the city, never to return. Gertrud, they told me you went _home_.”

“Nowhere has been my home as much as here!” Gertrud sobbed, but she accepted the flowers.

Elijah nodded with heartbroken sympathy, clutching his hat to his chest. He looked at Edward.

“Tell me who _you_ are?” he asked. “And how it came to this, since you know my son?”

Edward held Oswald closer than ever, so Oswald, at a loss in the face of revelation, clung back.

“Edward's my—” Oswald paused, taking over the burden of communication. “Edward is mine.”

Gertrud recovered, clutching the bouquet to her breast, the gesture mirroring Elijah's precisely.

“He protects me, too,” she said defiantly, steeling herself, “and is ours whether you like or not.”

Smiling tentatively, Elijah retrieved Gertrud's bouquet from the ground. He strode over to the mausoleum and spent the next several seconds dividing flowers up between the sconces until both of them were full.

“Then we should go for a stroll,” he said wryly. “I always wondered where those photos went.”


	5. Chapter 5

The conversation that they had occasion to overhear while all of them trudged up the stairs to Gertrud's apartment was startling in its frankness. They had no sooner reached the landing than Elijah's phone rang, and he answered it without hesitation while Gertrud fished for her keys.

“Ah, Grace,” Elijah said into the handset, a tinge of guilt coloring his tone. “Is everything all right?”

Oswald, fatigued and in pain, leaned into Edward as they exchanged glances. That Elijah had unreservedly taken Gertrud up on her insistence that he join them for lunch was astonishing.

“Remarkable,” Edward whispered while Gertrud opened the door and Elijah listened to whatever his wife was saying on the phone, “that nothing appears to have changed between them. It's as if three decades has done nothing to affect exactly the kind of body-language you'd expect—”

“They're sickening,” Oswald hissed back, lingering in the hall with Edward. “Are we sickening?”

“Probably,” Edward said, shrugging, helping Oswald across the threshold. “ _Shhh_ , let's keep listening.”

“I didn't anticipate the delay,” said Elijah, finally, while Gertrud, who'd been watching from where she stood in front of the stove, turned to busy herself with pots and containers of food. “I ran into someone who was once very important to me. Do you remember everything I told you about Gertrud? Well, I was misled. She's in Gotham, and we have a great deal of catching-up to do.” Elijah's expression clouded as the voice on the other end of the line rose to an unenviable pitch. “It's not as if we had plans today. You're in the city this weekend, and the children won't return from Barcelona until— _no_ , Grace, nothing like that. Gertrud and her son and his partner have asked me to lunch. There's no harm in it.”

Oswald couldn't help grinning as Edward helped him onto the bed and hastily unfastened the brace. He'd been thinking of Edward as his boyfriend, even if neither of them had used that term aloud, but _partner_ carried the kind of gravitas that Oswald had always longed to project.

“There's going to be trouble,” Edward said quietly, tugging up Oswald's trouser leg for an examination as soon as he'd set the brace on the floor. “I can feel it. Marriages of this kind, they often...”

“Take your time,” Oswald said, watching Edward remove his sock to have a look at his aching ankle.

“I don't want to cast aspersions,” Edward went on, side-eyeing Elijah, who'd gone silent again while Grace railed at him, “but I have my doubts regarding Grace's long-term motivations. Which is a shame, because the bond her children have with their adoptive father is likely genuine.”

“I'm still not even sure how _I_ feel about him,” Oswald sighed, wincing as Edward prodded.

“You've only known him for about an hour,” said Edward, wryly, stuffing one of the pillows beneath Oswald's heel so that his ankle was propped. “You need ice on this. I would've said heat since it was inflicted over a week ago, but this kind of swelling resurgence only responds well to cold.”

“Good thing, I guess,” Oswald said, mostly to himself now that Edward had risen to go to the freezer. “We don't have one of those heat-packs,” he added, returning his attention to the phone debacle.

“What do you mean, _whose_...” Elijah had gone from looking chastised to mildly furious, and Gertrud, stirring several pots at once, had angled her body away from the stove to watch. “Do you think I'm in the habit of asking about the parents of old friends' grown children?” he demanded, impressively convincing given the circumstances. “What do you mean _how grown_? Oswald is a fine young man in his late twenties, if I had to guess, and Edward can't be that much older. They're about Sasha's age. What? No, Edward is the partner. Now— _Grace_! That's uncharitable of you.”

“Your name,” said Edward, frantically dashing back with a bag of frozen carrots. “He used your—”

“The news,” Oswald cut in, horrified as Edward arranged the bag atop his foot. “If she's seen any—”

Gertrud shushed them so loudly that it startled even Elijah where he stood trembling next to the sofa. Resolutely, she turned down the burners, stuck lids on the three pots, and marched around the opposite side of the sofa. She looked to Elijah, patting the cushion beside her, and he went.

“Well, that does it for me,” Edward marveled, settling onto the mattress next to Oswald. “Still in love.”

“No shock there,” Oswald replied, trying to maintain interest in the sofa proceedings. “She always said she never stopped loving my father.”

“It's more shocking from Elijah's angle,” Edward murmured. “That he's not even siding with Grace...”

“This conversation is getting nowhere,” said Elijah, unhappily, squeezing Gertrud's hand. “You should continue with your spa get-away, and I will attend to my duties here. Well, _yes_ , Grace. If your accusations are correct, he very well could be. And I would own the mistake, and I would _not_ blame you. My dear, you know that I never stopped—never, never at _any_ point did I lie to you. She was everything to me, and you accepted—”

From across the room, Gertrud caught Oswald's eye with the most elated expression he'd ever seen.

“We'll need damage control,” said Edward, under his breath. “Depending on what actions Grace takes, how much she pokes around, she could blow your cover to this city's legal system in a heartbeat.”

Oswald watched Elijah withdraw the phone from his ear, blinking at it. Grace had hung up on him.

“Maybe it would be time,” Oswald murmured in Edward's ear, kissing it. “Our fortunes are turning.”

“Don't start spending money that hasn't even been pledged,” Edward warned. “I have some savings, and I'm prepared to use it in your defense, but that doesn't mean I can keep you out of...”

“I have some money, too,” Oswald insisted. “I'm not an idiot. I know what could happen if they connect those bodies at the farmhouse back to me.”

Edward's expression suggested he'd only just begun to consider the implications of his recent actions.

“Your prints aren't in the system,” he said moodily, and Oswald was aware that his mother and Elijah had begun to carry on their own low, heated conversation in the background. “I checked.”

“But yours are?” Oswald supplied, troubled, filling in the blank. “Because you're a GCPD employee?”

Edward nodded, hugging Oswald closer. “Granted, I was wearing gloves. I don't think I left prints.”

“My prints are on that kitchen knife you threw into the field,” Oswald reminded him. “And all over one of the vehicles left there, and the camper. Not in the system, though, as you've pointed out.”

“They can haul you in and print you if they connect the dots,” Edward said. “The fisherman's knife, I threw in the river. I've done everything I can.”

Oswald kissed him deeply, reassured that the disgusting lovebirds on the sofa were too preoccupied.

“You've done more than I ever would have asked,” he vowed, “and I will do anything to protect you.”

“Even kill again?” Edward whispered, eyes impossibly bright even in the face of their conversation.

“You're not the goody-two-shoes you seem to be,” Oswald said, “so how about you stop pretending?”

Edward kissed him back with joyful, bruising intensity. “I won't quit the precinct until I'm sure you're in the clear,” he promised. “Anything I can continue to do to misdirect them, I will.”

Beyond the bubble they'd created for themselves in the far corner of the room, Elijah and Gertrud had begun to pay attention. Oswald was irritated at himself for having let them get carried away.

“...seems to me our son didn't fall far from the tree,” Elijah was saying with sly and rueful amusement.

“He falls for Edward fast, so fast,” Gertrud replied, with mock-chastisement. “After what I tell you.”

Oswald felt Edward stiffen in his arms even as he shuddered with a chill. “What did you tell him?”

“How I meet Edward at the police station after you are missing,” Gertrud said. “How he helps me find you, and then takes care of you hurt like this, too, and hides you from Fish.”

Elijah must have picked up on Oswald's discomfort, because he had already raised both hands in reassurance. “My boy, we are all sinners,” he said gently. “Every one of us here.”

“You can say that again,” Edward mumbled, curling into Oswald, face hidden against Oswald's neck.

Oswald studied Elijah appraisingly, trawling his memory for everything that Fish had ever told him.

“You don't seem shocked by my profession,” he challenged. “Old money in Gotham is never clean.”

Elijah shrugged, turning his head to gauge Gertrud's reaction. “You're very right,” he said with reluctance. “My family's wasn't, far from it. We were tailors and fund-launderers to the mob for years.”

“Then I have an interest in knowing your allegiance,” Oswald continued, aware that Edward had relaxed somewhat in his embrace. “The eternal question: Maroni or Falcone?”

Elijah sighed, spreading his hands. “We were supposedly neutral ground. But by the time my father died, the last of our dwindling business had been exclusively with Falcone's empire.”

“My old boss, Fish Mooney, served Falcone,” Oswald said, “but I happen to know she's poised to betray him. Forget the Wayne murders frame-job. That's why she really wants me gone.”

“ _And_ there's the fact Carmine thinks that Jim Gordon killed you,” said Edward, venomously.

“I knew that the police were corrupt,” Elijah mused, “but I had no idea it extended to that shining new detective I read about in the papers, son of the old D.A. Gordon, a month or so back.”

“Then you must go to Don Falcone before Fish does,” said Gertrud, shocking all of them into silence.

Oswald shook his head in response to the fact that Edward had begun to adamantly shake his.

“Easier said than done,” he lamented, rubbing Edward's back to calm him. “Carmine would sooner kill a flunky like me than ask questions, unless he already suspects Fish.”

“Carmine Falcone stayed ten steps head of the rest, my father always said,” Elijah offered tentatively.

“I can't imagine what you must be thinking,” Oswald replied. “Your long-lost son is a criminal who's led an innocent GCPD employee astray. Think carefully about your involvement moving forward.”

“You did _not_ lead me astray,” Edward blurted, sitting up. “The precinct's been wretched to me.”

“Yes,” Gertrud interjected, patting Elijah's hand reassuringly. “We give him reasons to walk away.”

“Not to derail such an important conversation,” Elijah said, getting to his feet, “but the food's ready.”

Edward wasn't happy about Elijah seamlessly taking over his role as Gertrud's kitchen assistant, so Oswald took the opportunity to dote on him some more. By the time they were all seated around the tiny dining table with plates of paprika chicken, rice, and _túrós csusza_ —a cheese noodle dish with sliced sausage that Oswald hadn't seen his mother make in years—Edward was chatty again.

“We made this the same day we made the chicken,” he confided. “It's turkey sausage instead of pork.”

“I'm amazed she's adopted your changes,” Oswald replied. “She doesn't like being told what to do.”

“Is better for health,” Gertrud insisted, pleased that Elijah was so visibly enjoying his lunch. “Is also for Edward to keep traditions, to remember _his_ poor mother, rest her soul.”

“Young man, I'm sorry for your loss,” Elijah said, wiping his mouth. “The passing of parents is difficult.”

“They died at the same time,” Edward explained, hesitant in light of the fact that he had shared this specific point with Gertrud, but not with Oswald. “Car accident, but...more complicated than that.”

Oswald squeezed Edward's hand beneath the table. “You don't need to tell me about that right now.”

“What she means by traditions is that my mother was Jewish,” Edward went on, with the kind of swift, flat delivery that meant the topic might upset him. “So I guess that means I am, kind of.”

 _That explains the cheese_ , Oswald thought. “Be what you want to be,” he said, soothing him.

“I want to be with you,” said Edward, as if he'd forgotten they had an audience. “That's all.”

Elijah had been watching them wordlessly, transfixed, while Gertrud went on eating without concern.

“I hope it isn't rude to say,” he ventured at length, “but you're an example to me in this difficult time.”

Edward tore his eyes away from Oswald, fixing his gaze on Elijah. “Things change too fast,” he said, drawing Oswald's hand up against his chest. “I'm done with regrets. Time to take a chance.”

“I got the fairytale end of this deal,” Oswald added. “Edward's my knight in shining green armor.”

“That story's not the best match,” said Edward, abruptly in human-database mode. “What you want is something more like _Tsuru Nyōbō_ out of Japanese mythology. I found you wounded, patched you up, and brought you home. I'd like to think I knew what you were from the start, though, and that you'll keep getting better instead of more ill, and that you won't leave me.”

“Knew what I was?” Oswald echoed, mystified. “Ed, I don't know this one. You left something out.”

“Oh,” Edward replied. “The man found and helped a crane who'd been shot with an arrow. After that, she came to him in human form, and they married. She wove to support them, but grew sicker and sicker by the day. It was because she plucked her feathers, one by one, to spin silk. When her husband learned why she was fading, he was angry. So she left him. The end.”

Elijah looked as if he was having about as much difficulty with the emotional reconciliation of what he'd just heard as Oswald was. He wiped his mouth, set down his napkin, and took Gertrud's hand.

“I would like to request that all of you come to visit me tomorrow,” he said, “so that I might repay this kindness. Whatever my wife, Grace, may think of this situation, I have an obligation to you.”

Oswald scarcely registered Elijah's invitation. He was hung up on details that made him want to weep.

“Penguin,” he said, squeezing Edward's hand so hard that Edward gasped. “Did I tell you about that?”

“About what?” Edward asked, ignoring the sudden, tense exchange Gertrud and Elijah were having.

“The rest of Fish's crew,” Oswald sighed, staring at their entwined fingers. “They call me Penguin.”

Edward's eyes lit up again, fierce with the same mystifying joy as before. “And your father's a tailor.”

“I will not go until she is there!” shouted Gertrud, startling them out of their reverie. “ _Érti_?”

Elijah nodded, seemingly repentant that he'd extended the invitation while Grace was set to be absent.

“I can understand why you would want it that way,” he said solemnly to Gertrud. “That's admirable.”

Oswald considered the utility of him and Edward having Elijah to themselves for a day. Considering the joint mess they were now engaged in, the most useful move would be to talk strategy.

“Will you let this sickly fowl make a rash decision?” Oswald asked Edward, with a self-effacing smile.

“No secrets,” Edward said. “No blood in the thread but his,” he added, indicating Elijah. “I'll allow it.”

“Edward and I would be glad to join you tomorrow, if you would be amenable to that,” said Oswald.

At the acceptance of his offer, Elijah broke into a smile so genuine that it almost hurt to look at him.


	6. Chapter 6

Oswald closed his eyes, concentrating on the feel of Edward examining his right ankle. They’d returned to Edward’s apartment the evening before, but not before seeing to it that Elijah had gone on his way. He had left them with his calling-card, and Gertrud, he’d left with a kiss.

Since it was Monday morning, Edward had called in sick again. His habit of leaving voicemail containing lengthy descriptions of imaginary symptoms likely wouldn’t fly for much longer.

“I don’t understand why it’s healing more slowly,” Edward muttered. “There’s something I can’t see.”

“You said yourself that without an X-ray, it’s impossible to know,” Oswald said, holding out his arms.

Edward crawled up the length of Oswald’s body for a kiss, settling back against the pillow beside him.

“The sooner you can let people know that you’re not dead, the sooner I can get you better treatment.”

Stroking Edward’s cheek, Oswald rolled onto his side and kissed him harder. “You’ve done enough.”

“You really have an aversion to licensed medical professionals, don’t you,” Edward said in frustration.

Distracting him with the warm press of their morning-eager bodies was easy, until they forgot Edward’s concern.

“We can’t dally too long,” Oswald murmured afterward, cleaning them. “Elijah’s expecting us soon.”

Once he’d dropped the tissues on the floor, Edward tugged him back under the tangled sheets and quilt.

“Just a little bit longer,” he said, clinging as if he feared the excursion. “We have two hours. Please.”

“You’ve become quite the delinquent,” said Oswald, teasingly. “Then again, so have I. Shocking.”

“My priorities have shifted,” Edward yawned, responding to the accusation by pinching Oswald’s side.

Getting ready took less time now that Oswald was steadier on his feet—aided or unaided, brace or no brace. Edward had gotten into the habit of fussing over the finer details of Oswald’s wardrobe as insistently as Oswald had taken to fussing over his.

“I wasn’t sure I liked this,” Oswald said, adjusting Edward’s question-mark tie bar, “but it suits you.”

Edward bent down and kissed him worshipfully, straightening Oswald’s tie and smoothing his lapels. 

“You’d look nice in something closer-cut,” he breathed, sliding both hands beneath Oswald’s unbuttoned jacket, palming his hipbones. “The more of your clothes we bring over here, the more I think about learning how to take in trousers. You’ve lost weight.”

“Ed, the time,” Oswald cautioned, pressing into the touch. “Let’s not have a repeat of turning up at my mother’s looking exactly like we just...”

Edward was beaming at him, insufferably smug. He released Oswald and handed him his crutches.

“Maybe if things go well today, your father will teach me,” Edward said with scarcely-contained delight.

“Heaven knows you’re beyond competent,” Oswald said, eyeing the Singer. “You mended my cuff last week more deftly than Mom would've done.”

“You’re overlooking something,” said Edward, smiling deviously. “What did the quilt say to the bed?”

Oswald blinked at the much-abused top layer of Edward’s covers. They’d only dragged it back and forth between bed and sofa for two weeks, and had behaved scandalously with it besides.

“You _made_ that?” demanded Oswald, stupefied, tempted to go look closer. “If I had known—”

“I’ve got you covered,” said Edward, gleefully giving away the answer as he tugged Oswald toward the door. “Let’s go. I’m not as nervous now.”

They had enough combined knowledge of the Palisades and environs that they didn’t need a map. It was a longer drive than Stoker by twice as much, and Edward was markedly calmer at the wheel with Oswald’s hand on his thigh.

The Van Dahl Estate loomed dreary and beautiful ahead of them, visible well before the mailbox.

Edward slowed as they approached the left-hand turn onto the gravel drive, whistling.

Oswald rolled down his window, leaning to study the sprawling, turreted structure. “Mom lived here.”

“Even odds as to whether the servants’ quarters are upstairs or annexed off the back,” Edward replied.

“They must have staff,” said Oswald, closing the window as Edward parked. “How many d’you think?”

“A few,” said Edward, pushing open the driver’s side door, and then fetched Oswald’s crutches from the back. He strolled around to the passenger side and helped Oswald out. “One if they’re private.”

“From what your research suggests, that may be the case,” Oswald said, starting for the entrance.

Edward rang the doorbell twice, startled by a shout from within. He clutched Oswald’s upper arm.

“Olga, don’t trouble yourself!” said a voice recognizable as Elijah’s, at high volume. “I’ll get it!”

Oswald couldn’t help but find the moment comical, given that his father answered the door in an apron.

“My boy,” said Elijah, breathlessly, indicating that they should enter with a wave of his dishcloth, “your mother’s cooking skills have always inspired me. I hope you won’t find lunch lacking.”

“Who’s Olga?” Edward asked, too on-edge to bother with niceties as he helped Oswald out of his coat.

“The new housekeeper,” Elijah explained, as if he didn’t find the query rude at all. “I’d rather she kept an eye on the dishes I started than have to bother directly with guests so soon.”

“Thanks again for the invitation,” Oswald said, eyes tracking over the dimly-lit entryway in wonder.

“We haven’t known each other twenty-four hours, yet it still pains me to see you hurt,” said Elijah.

Oswald shrugged, hopping forward a few more steps as Edward hung their coats. “I was fortunate.”

“Fortunate it wasn’t much worse,” Edward clarified, offering Elijah his hand. “Mr. Van Dahl.”

“If it isn’t too upsetting to discuss,” said Elijah, shaking Oswald’s next, “what did Ms. Mooney do?”

“She hit me with a chair,” Oswald said, realizing by the slow shift of Edward’s facial expression that this wasn’t information he’d covered in detail. “It broke, so she picked up one of the legs and…” He gestured at the brace, avoiding Edward’s horrified stare. “Two blows.”

“That might’ve given me something to work with,” said Edward, flatly. “Would it be impolitic to say that I hope Falcone disposes of her soon?”

“She’s a formidable woman,” said Oswald, stepping closer to him, “and part of me would be sorry to see her go. However, her territory has suffered due to a recent…lack of attentiveness.”

“On account of what?” Elijah asked, causing both of them to turn at his unexpectedly keen interest.

“Dalliances with the wait-staff,” Oswald said, realizing too late that he had said something foolish.

“Ah,” said Edward, tactfully looking away. “That explains some of what I saw when I questioned her.”

Elijah waved his hand at Oswald, the lax gesture suggesting that it was already water under the bridge.

“Neither her staff, nor her clientèle are necessarily known for their wit,” he said, winking at Edward.

“Touché, sir,” Oswald said, laughing as Edward resumed his hold on Oswald’s arm. “I deserved that.”

“On the contrary, I’m convinced you were an exception,” said Elijah, kindly. “Would you like a tour?”

“Yes, but restricted to the ground floor,” Edward replied. “The stairs at his mother’s are bad enough.”

“I had hoped to offer you suit-fittings as a gesture of goodwill,” Elijah said, leading them through a spiked archway into what looked like the dining and sitting rooms combined, “but that was careless of me. My workspace is upstairs, you see. It can wait until you’ve recovered.”

“I’d like that,” Edward said before Oswald could offer his thanks. “I’d like that _very_ much.”

“You seem keen,” said Elijah, ambling to the hearth. “Your ancestors, Oswald,” he went on, gesturing at the portraits, and then returned his focus to Edward. “An aspiration, perhaps—or a hobby?”

“Guilty as charged,” Edward gushed, showing off his elbow patches’ delicate hand-stitching. “Both.”

“It stands to reason,” Elijah said conspiratorially, nudging Oswald’s shoulder as he led them back into the hall, “that any son of mine would have excellent taste in matters of courting.”

Oswald flushed with pride. “Edward _is_ exceptional, isn’t he? So brilliant and refined.”

“You’re a grown man, of course, free to make your own decisions,” Elijah continued, “but your mother’s approval is a great comfort to me.”

“Mom gets along with Ed better than she gets along with me,” Oswald demurred, nudging Edward with his crutch to let him know it was fine to wander. “He’s the son she never had.”

Happily pretending that he didn’t know he was being discussed, Edward slipped past them into the drawing room ahead. He crouched next to the chess table, appraising the abandoned game.

“Black has the advantage,” he said once Elijah and Oswald had caught up. “Your doing, I gather?”

Elijah shook his head. “My stepdaughter and I started before she left, and she’s got me on the run.”

“Sasha,” Edward said, getting to his feet, finger poised thoughtfully on the white queen. “She plays?”

Oswald studied the oval portrait over the smaller fireplace, lowering himself into the armchair at Elijah’s silent insistence.

“So does her brother, Charles,” Elijah answered. “I wish you could have met them today, but they’re in Europe until the end of the month. A longer sabbatical than their mother’s taking, I fear.”

“They do say occasional distance can make for stronger family relations,” Oswald said, spinning his crutches. “Does Grace slip away often?”

“Oh, at least once a month,” said Elijah, commending Edward’s move on his behalf. “It’s common.”

“Long weekend,” Oswald said, feigning understanding. “I suppose she’ll return tonight for dinner?”

“As far as I know,” Elijah agreed. “I spoke with her before you arrived. She’s calling on a friend.”

Edward took Sasha’s seat at the chess table, gesturing for Elijah to join him while Oswald looked on.

“I’d love to hear how you met,” he said, making Sasha’s next move, too. “Do you think Sasha will…”

“Mind? Gracious, not at all,” Elijah said, countering quickly enough to make Edward gasp. “As for how I met Grace, it was both serendipitous and pragmatic. She waited on me regularly at the local diner in the months after my mother died, and that’s how I learned of her poor, sweet children and their abusive father.” He looked to Oswald, as if seeking forgiveness. “Grace was the kindest soul I had met since Gertrud. I grew fond of her children, too. Within a year, this house heard laughter again.”

Troubled by the disconnect between what they had observed the day before and what Elijah had just said, Oswald leaned forward. He stayed Edward’s pawn-bound hand with a touch.

“Although I run the risk of seeming rude,” he said, fixing Elijah with a cold look, “there’s something I need to ask.” He brought Edward’s hand up to his lips and kissed it, making an example, pleased that Edward couldn’t help sighing. “Do you love my mother?”

Elijah closed his eyes, features contorted in fierce, unenviable conflict. “You heard my side of that conversation with Grace yesterday,” he said helplessly. “I never stopped, _never_. And I think she accepted that condition because, like me, she believed Gertrud would never return.”

“Quite the pickle to be in,” Oswald allowed, releasing Edward’s hand so he could make his next move.

“I’d like nothing more than for you, your mother, and Edward to be part of our lives,” Elijah confessed.

“Maybe not my place to say,” Edward interjected, “but Grace seemed the exact opposite of amenable.”

“I can’t speak for my mother,” Oswald said, “but Edward and I have every desire to honor your wish.”

Elijah nodded reluctantly, turning at the sound of footsteps in the hall. “Nor I for Grace,” he said, acknowledging the presence of a black-and-white uniformed woman in the doorway. “Yes?”

“I serve lunch,” said Olga, in sternly Russian-accented English. “Follow to dining room, please.”

“To be continued,” Edward said, abandoning his move in favor of helping Oswald out of the chair.

“It would be my pleasure to start the clock over,” Elijah replied, following them out of the room.

The first course set before them was soup, a dead ringer for Gertrud's sweet-paprika cabbage borscht.

“I wouldn't have believed my mother didn't make this,” Oswald said, only three ravenous bites along.

“This was always my favorite of hers,” Elijah said reverently. “I begged her to write the recipe down for me after the first time I tasted it, but she insisted it was a family secret. She finally relented, but only if I'd watch her in the kitchen until I knew it by heart. That's how we got acquainted.”

“Gosh,” Edward murmured, so distracted that the piece of corn bread he'd dipped in his soup fell apart.

“Gertrud tells me you're the fastest learner she's met since,” said Elijah, offering Edward a fresh piece.

“Edward's a regular homemaker,” Oswald reassured him, “and physician, no matter what he claims.”

Edward huffed around a mouthful of borscht-soaked corn bread. “Mr. Van Dahl, would you _please_ impress upon your son,” he said at length, “that forensics degrees are not—”

“My guess, Edward, is that most forensics technicians would not have the wherewithal to successfully accomplish this kind of treatment,” Elijah cut in. “Which makes it impressive.”

“Anyone can do extra reading and spend longer hours in the cadaver lab,” said Edward, embarrassed.

“My ankle's not working the way he'd like it to,” Oswald said sardonically, “but he's completely ignoring the fact that my knee, two weeks after that beating, is almost back in order.”

Edward grabbed his glass and thrust it toward the center of the table. “To fortuitous events.”

“To coincidence,” Elijah agreed, clinking his water off Edward's sherry. “To family and friends.”

Any additions Oswald might have made were for Edward's ears only, so he silently joined the toast.

Halfway through the main course, stuffed red and yellow peppers roasted to perfection, Oswald's phone rang—just when they'd settled into mundane conversation, too. He'd finally caved and given his mother the number so that she'd stop calling Edward by default.

“Sorry,” Oswald sighed, pulling out the handset and flipping it open. “Hi, Mom. How's your day—”

“Is going,” Gertrud cut in shakily, her voice edged with the thin, high strain of hysteria. “Oswald, it is...” She panted, swallowing either a laugh or a sob. “I do not know how to say...”

“What happened?” Oswald demanded, instantly anxious. “Tell me what's going on; Ed and I will—”

“You said I must catch up to you,” whispered Gertrud, with a hint of terrified pride, “so I work on it.”


	7. Chapter 7

Oswald was so upset about the cryptic note on which his mother had hung up that Edward had found it necessary to make a sequence of split-second decisions with Elijah's input. He hadn't protested as Elijah shouted apologies to Olga for their hasty departure and Edward helped him out of his seat and onto his crutches. Edward's touch had been his only reassurance.

“Sorry about the speed limit,” Edward said for the second time, squeezing Oswald's hand, struggling to keep his eyes on the road. He glanced at the rearview mirror. “Elijah's behind us.”

“I wouldn't worry,” said Oswald, numbly, staring out the window. “He'll remember the way.”

“You can't take that for granted,” Edward said, apologetically releasing Oswald's fingers so that he could wrap both hands around the steering wheel. “He's only been there once.”

“Yes, Ed,” Oswald snapped, chewing the edge of his thumbnail bloody, “and it was _yesterday_.”

“Right, right,” Edward mumbled, flipping the turn signal as their exit approached. “Sorry.”

Oswald felt a sudden, sickening pang of guilt. He scrambled for contact with Edward's knee.

“I didn't mean that,” he said desperately, stroking over Edward's trouser-leg. “It's just, I'm...”

“I'm as worried about your mother as you are,” said Edward, curtly, releasing the wheel long enough to pat Oswald's hand. “This doesn't bode well. I have a guess at what's happening.”

Oswald thought about what she'd said, turning the words over. _You said I must catch up_ —

“Oh,” he whispered, before Edward could even speak. “I was being facetious. Oh _no_.”

“Being facetious about what?” Edward demanded, nearly running a stop-sign. “Oswald?”

“I wasn't serious when I told her she needed to catch up with my kill count!” Oswald snapped.

“Catch _up_?” Edward echoed uneasily, drifting to a stop. “Do you mean to tell me...”

Oswald made a frustrated gesture, folding his arms. “Years ago, she got a classmate killed.”

Edward spent the next few minutes mulling over this information, checking the rearview again.

“That explains an awful lot about, well, _you_ ,” he said, deadpan, hitting the gas pedal.

“Listen to me carefully, Ed,” Oswald replied grimly. “This family isn't sunshine and roses.”

“Like you think my family _was_?” Edward shot back, sounding hurt. “I have eyes!”

“I need you to understand what you're getting into,” Oswald went on in desperation. “Do you?”

“Your mother is knowingly responsible for a childhood friend's death,” Edward said, accelerating as they approached their destination. “Your father, meanwhile, comes from a line that served Gotham's two most powerful Mafia families for _years_. And you, Oswald? You worked indirectly for one of those families, and you betrayed your liege-lady because, in time, you'd like to edge them all out and rule Gotham. Clear enough?”

Shaken to his very core with the uncanny accuracy of Edward's appraisal, Oswald stared at him.

“I never went so far as to tell you that last part,” he said guardedly. “What makes you so sure—”

“Don't play stupid,” Edward said, screeching flush with the curb as he put the car in park. He unbuckled his belt and leaned across the center console, eyes feral. “I want to rule with you.”

Oswald returned Edward's kiss with joyful disbelief, hating the fact that he had to cut them off.

“Hold that thought,” he said, glancing out the window to make sure that Elijah had caught up.

Foregoing his crutches in a fit of urgency, Oswald threw open the passenger-side door and started for the entrance.

Elijah caught Oswald's arm before Edward could, yanking him to a halt.

“You'll hurt yourself,” he said breathlessly, nodding for Edward to get the door. “Let me help.”

Wordlessly, Edward dashed ahead of them up the stairs. Elijah helped Oswald painstakingly up to the landing, huffing in sympathy with Oswald's curses at his unwieldy brace. So much for Edward's insistence that he take things easy.

“I cannot tell you,” Oswald panted, “how tired I am of this—this _awful contraption_.”

“You mustn't be ungrateful to Edward,” Elijah cautioned, helping him hobble toward the open door to Apartment 9, which Edward had opened. 

Nothing could have prepared Oswald for the scene that awaited them inside, absolutely _nothing_.

Gertrud, who stood nearly frozen with her back to the sink, was wringing her hands in shock.

At her feet, Edward crouched next to a body with what looked like a kitchen-knife in its chest.

“Mr. Van Dahl,” said Edward, his tone fraught and unreadable, “you might want to stay back.”

Oswald could tell from the murderous tightening of Elijah's grip that he'd already seen too much.

“Stay back,” he said as commandingly as he could, extending his arm to bar Elijah's passage.

“A friend,” Elijah cried, doubling over so suddenly that Oswald had to catch him. “A _friend_.”

“So fast it happens,” Gertrud blurted, her voice cracking, gesturing wildly at each of them, and then the body. “One minute I am chopping _sárgarépak_ for dinner, the next I am answering the door—and she forces her way inside, for shame! Such terrible things she calls me, such disturbance while I work! And she grabs my shoulder when I do not answer, Oswald, and I am _so scared_ —”

“She instinctively lashed out when Grace tried to turn her around,” Edward said in fascination, worming one hand into the glove he'd withdrawn from his pocket. He prodded the knife-handle with his index finger, seemingly impressed at how far Gertrud's struggle against Grace's momentum had driven the blade. “Ms. Kapelput?” he said calmly, glancing up at her.

It took every ounce of Oswald's considerable pain tolerance to remain on his feet, what with Elijah stifling a low, ugly sob against his shoulder. He awkwardly patted his father's back, wondering if this would be par for the family-bonding course.

“What are we going to do now?” he asked Edward, who had gotten to his feet and stepped around the body in order to stiffly take Gertrud in his arms. “If the MCU comes back...”

“This was an act of self-defense,” Edward said. “Easily provable as such, if you ask me. Mr. Van Dahl, I need you to pay attention.”

Elijah extracted himself from Oswald's embrace, struggling to regain his composure. He tugged a handkerchief from his breast pocket, blew his nose in it, and nodded at Edward.

“It had better be,” Oswald said, taking a few halting steps toward Grace's body. “Otherwise...”

“Because Oswald is in hiding, no one can know he's been home,” Edward said, patting Gertrud's back mechanically, increasingly agitated at the unfamiliar physical contact. “No one can know I've been here, either, or that I've been helping you,” he went on, directing the words toward Gertrud's ear. “Everybody with me so far? Okay.” He let go of Gertrud, pushing her away as apologetically as he could. “Mr. Van Dahl, I'm going to need you to take point on this. Make up some story about how you and Gertrud met in the graveyard— _any_ story. You both have nostalgic reasons for visiting that mausoleum. The media's going to love the fact that you were there for your old flame in her time of need, and they'll love this—” he gestured at Grace with a showman's flare “—even more.”

“The jealous wife,” Oswald said, letting Getrud fall into his arms, where she sniffled. “Out to take revenge on her husband's erstwhile flame.”

“Shame on her, such an ungrateful _whore_!” Gertrud railed, slamming her fist against Oswald's shoulder. “Driving me to this violent act in the walls of my own home! Driving my poor, poor _drágám_ to such undignified—”

“Gertrud, enough,” said Elijah, quietly, startling Oswald into staring at him. He had tucked his handkerchief back in his pocket and straightened his spine. “Oswald, bring your mother to me,” he continued, extending his hand. “Edward, please take my son home. And _stay_ there.”

While Oswald led his mother over to Elijah, Edward dashed to catch up with him, hovering.

“They are good boys, so _very_ clever,” said Gertrud, haltingly, as Elijah drew her close.

Oswald limped back, free of his mother's grasp, relieved to find Edward waiting to catch him.

“If you need advice once the police are gone,” Edward said, holding Oswald up, “it would be smartest to call Oswald's temporary number from a pay phone. I'm worried that Gertrud's dialed it from her land line. I'm worried that she's called my cell, at that. There might be questions if this isn't ruled open-and-shut. I'd prefer a crime of passion to a plot that implicates us.”

Nodding, Elijah met Edward's unblinking focus with an impressive, hidden measure of gravitas.

“Leave now,” he said softly, gesturing toward the door. “I've just arrived. I'll call the GCPD.”

“We'll regroup tomorrow,” Edward muttered, hustling Oswald out. “We'll think of something,” he added as the door slammed behind them, taking Oswald's arm as they reached the stairs.

The drive home was short, but Edward obeyed every traffic sign so punctiliously that it took all of Oswald's restraint not to laugh. Faced with more murder, Edward fell back on manners.

Once they were safe inside—elevator still, door locked behind them—Edward finally broke down.

In that moment, Oswald knew both his place and his course as surely as Elijah had known his.

“Edward, look at me,” he said, rocking Edward soothingly in his embrace. “ _Shhh_. Ed.”

Edward straightened, wiping his nose on the back of his gloved hand. “I'm afraid,” he said.

“I love you,” Oswald said, his eyes fixed on Edward's, stance unwavering in spite of his pain.

Breaking into that unreserved, heart-seizing smile, Edward nodded. “I know. I love you, too.”


	8. Chapter 8

Around five o'clock in the morning, Oswald resigned himself to the fact that, after next to no sleep in his own right, Edward’s twitchy insomnia wasn’t going to improve. He kissed the back of Edward’s neck, softly stroking Edward’s hip.

“My love,” Oswald sighed, feeling the tension in Edward ease at his words, “what can I do?”

“Stop this,” Edward fretted. “Do whatever you have to do _not_ to be dead anymore.”

Oswald nodded, trailing a line of kisses over to Edward’s shoulder, too tired to even argue.

“It’s less than ideal,” he agreed. “I’m sick of hiding like the wounded bird from your story.”

“You’re less wounded than you look,” Edward replied, shivering beneath Oswald’s palm as Oswald brushed it down the front of his thigh. “Kind of uncanny, how fast your knee healed. Your ankle's normal speed in comparison.”

“You’ll be leaving for work in a couple of hours,” Oswald breathed, gently biting Edward’s nape as he finally, _finally_ curled his fingers around Edward’s cock. “Do you want me to help you relax?”

“I want you to fuck me, but I still don’t think that’s smart,” Edward sulked, pushing into the touch. “Even if I was on top, I don’t think your leg…”

Oswald stopped touching him just long enough to fumble on the night-stand for Edward’s tube of surgical lubricant. He dropped the cap in the process of getting some on his fingers, swearing as it rolled under the bed.

“I’ll find it when I get up,” Edward panted, jerking reflexively into Oswald’s slick grasp.

“As soon as my ankle looks normal again,” Oswald said, “I’m going to do it, smart or not.”

Edward moaned breathily, stifling his desperation in the pillow while Oswald pleasured him.

“I do—don’t want to leave,” he stammered. “I’ll just—call them and say that I’m quitting—”

Biting down harder than before, thrilled at Edward’s drawn-out cry, Oswald slid his right leg over Edward and snapped his hips against the small of Edward’s back. He shivered with the notion that had just occurred to him as much as with the knowledge Edward was close.

“If you go,” Oswald panted, stroking him even faster, “I promise you a very nice surprise.”

Whimpering in agreement, Edward went lax and pliant as he spilled over Oswald’s fingers.

Painfully aroused, but patient, Oswald cuddled him drowsily while he recovered his breath.

“Won’t leave without getting to do this,” Edward said stubbornly, disentangling himself from Oswald. He took hold of Oswald’s sticky hand, used the robe off the bedpost to clean it, and then pressed Oswald onto his back. “Can I suck you?” he whispered, faintly abashed.

Oswald twitched beneath Edward’s warm, solid weight, winding around Edward instinctively.

“No,” Oswald begged, dizzy with the feel of him, “no, I want—Ed, _please_ just kiss—”

Without hesitation, Edward did as he was told, kissing Oswald deeply. “I love you so much.”

Oswald dug his uninjured heel into the back of Edward’s right thigh, too shocked at the intensity of his climax to even cry out. He gasped harshly against Edward’s jaw, clinging to him. He would risk anything to see Edward content.

After dozing in Oswald's arms for half an hour, the only real rest he'd gotten, Edward forced himself out of bed, showered, and dressed. He kissed Oswald on his way out the door. Cruel, that they couldn't spend the day lounging in bed.

There was no sense in staying under the covers, not with the decision Oswald had made, so he dry-swallowed two oxycodone tablets en route to the bathroom and showered. Dressing without Edward to offer assistance and shy compliments felt like a waste, but he donned the best suit they'd salvaged from Gertrud's closet as exactingly as if he were headed to the club.

After an exhaustive, exasperated search of the apartment, it was obvious that Edward had borrowed Oswald's cufflinks again.

Dissatisfied with any of Edward's zany typewriter-key offerings, Oswald put on his shoes and coat with a mild amount of disorientation thanks to the pills. Loath to either strap on his brace or make use of the crutches, Oswald rummaged in Edward's cramped closet for anything resembling a walking stick. What he found instead was a wood-handled black umbrella, and that would suffice.

Traipsing several blocks home without proper support was probably a terrible idea, but Oswald would be damned if he'd carry out his mission without cufflinks. The stairs in his mother's building took nearly as long as the walk, but the sense of achievement was worth it.

After knocking on the door several times, to no answer, Oswald cautiously let himself inside.

The scene was much improved in comparison to the one that he and Edward had left behind, but harrowing in some undefinable sense. Grace's body had been taken away. From the look of things, she hadn't even bled on the kitchen rug.

Across the room on his mother's still-made bed, Gertrud and Elijah slept in each other's arms.

 _Good thing your clothes are on_ , Oswald thought, bypassing the exhausted couple in his search for suitable accessories, which was trying given the difficulty of using an umbrella. _I might've called you both something worse than just hussies._

While seated on his bed, rummaging through a case of accoutrements that he and Edward hadn't yet evacuated from the premises, Oswald's phone buzzed. He unpocketed and flipped it open, frowning at the vague message on the screen.

 _Getting hot down here_ , read Edward's text. _MCU detectives in the Captain's office, arguing_.

If that wasn't a sign that his decision was fated, Oswald didn't know what was. _Hold on_.

Five minutes later, cuff-linked and cologne-spritzed, Oswald called a taxi to take him uptown.

On arrival at the precinct, Oswald's irate driver demanded twice what the ride should have cost. 

Aware of the infractions he'd impatiently demanded, Oswald paid it. Adjusting his grip on the umbrella, he hobbled inside.

Such a ruckus was in progress that no one noticed his entrance—no one, that is, except Edward.

“You think you can walk in here and take my people like that?” Essen demanded of Montoya and Allen, who, in a stunning display of authority, had both Gordon and Bullock in handcuffs. It was a sight worth cherishing until hell froze over.

“Hi,” Edward mouthed silently, frozen where he stood at the crowd's periphery. He was so close to where Oswald stood on the entry stairs that he could have reached out and touched him, the proximity so flawless that they might have choreographed it.

“We're not here to take down the GCPD,” snapped Montoya, irritably. “We just want these two!”

“Well, they're GCPD,” Essen shot back, taking a step toward her, “so the MCU's got a problem!”

Edward swallowed hard, gracing Oswald with an apprehensive frown as Bullock started to shout.

Tapping the floor with his makeshift cane, Oswald descended the two low stairs. The movement took precisely its intended effect, as everyone, even Essen and Montoya, whirled to stare. He'd never made such a head-turning entrance in his life.

“Holy _crap_ ,” Bullock blurted, staring in glaze-eyed disbelief over Allen's shoulder.

“Hello,” Oswald said, enjoying the assembly's consternation. “I am Oswald Cobblepot.”

“You son of a bitch,” Bullock muttered, making a move toward Gordon. “You son of a—”

“Harvey,” said Jim, his voice low with warning as colleagues stepped in to restrain them both.

“You owe me an escort after all this trouble, Jim,” Oswald said primly. “Wouldn't you agree?”

“I'm not sure I understand,” Jim replied, looking Oswald up and down. “You're walking fine.”

“Be that as it may,” Oswald continued, “there's less spring in my step thanks to yesterday's cruel, unexplained attack on my poor mother. It has _not_ been the nicest thing to come home to after my recent travels. I'm touched by all of the fuss over my alleged disappearance, but really? Put your manpower where it's actually needed.” He turned to Edward, feigning intense scrutiny. “What about him?”

“Yeah, what about him?” retorted Harvey. “Want somebody to walk you out? Great choice. Nobody's gonna miss Ed, 'cause he's hardly been in.”

Oswald stepped closer to Edward, enjoying the charade as he glanced at Edward's name badge.

“Mr. Nygma,” he said, offering his arm with elaborate formality. “What do you say to that?”

“Yes _please_ ,” replied Edward, latching onto him. “You can see me out while we're at it!”


End file.
